


You are my 3am thoughts.

by emef



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Minor Spoilers, Pining, unplanned confessions, when coping mechanisms fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Miles's coping mechanisms fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay but seriously this was just supposed to be a moody little 500-word stream of consciousness fic about people-watching at work, but it turned into my Chandler/Miles manifesto.
> 
> Thanks to enemyofperfect without whom I would never write anything.
> 
> Thanks to Charloween for editing.
> 
> Thanks to Chocolatepeach for beta and britpick.

Sometimes the job is just about staying in the office and staring at a computer screen for hours.

Miles has never been good at this. He's good at guessing what people are thinking, and he's good at knowing every brick, every pebble in Whitechapel. He's good at interrogations and at making sure office morale is up. He's not at all good at reviewing scanned copies of over 400 case files to check for the presence of possible faked signatures. He _is_ good at getting other people to do this stuff, and that's what he'd do now, except everyone else's tasks are even _worse_.

He sits at his dusty, boring, badly-lit desk. He stares at the screen; it stares back. The entire office suddenly feels airless and confining. This isn't police work, this is - this is _Buchan's_ work. Sitting at a desk is horrible. It makes Miles feel like his life-force is dribbling through his desk chair onto the floor. Sitting at his desk is making him age twice as fast.

He can see that Chandler is good at this though. There he sits, his door open just enough to hear the chatter outside, but not enough to be distracted by it. He actually looks _younger_ , and isn't that a terrifying thought. There's something even more unguarded about him than usual. All captivated by the files he's reading, like a kid with a picture book. Which makes sense, Miles thinks. In Chandler's world, office work must be... familiar and calming. "Nibs," Miles scoffs, to no one in particular, though he feels a pang of – of something, at the thought of Chandler finding calm somewhere.

He must have been the world's biggest swot at school. Miles can just imagine. Chandler as a youth, awkward and too tall. No social skills whatever - worse than now, if that's possible. His head in a notebook to avoid looking his classmates in the eye. And them, his classmates, they must have - they can't have been _blind_. Full of teenage hormones, the lot of them. They must have been falling over themselves to - and Christ, Chandler would've been a sight, then. All golden and thoughtful and blue-eyed. He probably became a teenager and didn't know what hit him; woke up one morning, suddenly six feet tall, to find that his vest didn't fit over his biceps.

Miles instantly regrets thinking about Chandler's biceps. It opens up a whole area of thought he tries to avoid, but it's too late, and he finds himself thrown back to his own adolescence, to being caught looking at James Rivers's bronzed shoulders. They'd caught him, that one day, when the sun had been blinding and hot, and everyone had decided to take their shirts off... Miles internally winces from the memory. "Shame" didn't even cover it. It had also been the utter devastation of looking up into James's eyes and seeing contempt, with a little bit of disgust mixed in.

Christ, this is what staying in the office does to Miles. He's losing his _mind_. What a disaster.

Miles begins to stand up, but he changes his mind, and ends up shifting about in his chair. Bloody hell, he's a grown man. He has _children_. He's been _stabbed_. He is entrusted with the protection of an _entire district_. Surely doing a bit of quiet reading can't be _that hard_.

*

When Miles looks up again, Chandler is taking off his jacket. He does it slowly, keeping his eyes on a file. His arms are behind his back; he pulls on one sleeve, and the shoulder of the jacket moves down. Then he contorts himself, the buttons of his shirt straining a bit, and does the same with the other sleeve. He places the jacket on his desk, distractedly, and then starts to loosen his collar. It's only then that Miles looks away.

He's usually better at avoiding this kind of distraction. He's had decades of practice and he's constructed coping mechanisms for himself, all to avoid this kind of thing. But here he is, gazing at Chandler, rather like those girls who make daily passes at the man.

That's what they'd called Miles back in the day, as well: a _girl_. He hadn't really minded, honestly, some part of him knew he hadn't done anything wrong. It was James's... it was the way James had looked at him. That had stung. Miles feels flushed, suddenly, and really, really wishes he knew how to stop thinking about this while simultaneously keeping silent and still at a desk.

He should get himself some tea, that's what he should do. Tea makes everything normal. Well, no: whiskey makes everything normal, but His Nibs will make a fuss if Miles takes a bottle out of desk now. So tea. But no - if he gets up now to fetch tea, he'll have to offer to fetch everyone's teas. He doesn't think he could safely look anyone in the eye. Not to mention that he'd have to offer to fetch _Chandler_ 's tea.

*

When the last of the case files has been reviewed, Miles looks up from his screen, and the office is still quiet. The silence is just getting bizarre, now. Miles has absolute faith that this is the right line of inquiry, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. He can hear noises in the rest of the station, but here, in the incident room, there isn't a sound. It's like the place is under a spell. The spell of good coppers chasing paper trails. Heads bent over their case files, breathing slow and steady, eyes worn out by the computer screens and the long day. Even Chandler is looking worse for wear, rolling his shoulders wearily, and rubbing the back of his neck.

The last time he'd felt like this, Miles thinks, he'd been a copper for less than a year, and he hadn't been able to take his eyes off DS Ingram. He'd been on general duties then, and someone had somehow found out that he hated to type, and so he'd been stuck behind a typewriter for weeks. But he hadn't even minded, because Ingram kept stopping by his desk and chatting. He'd just perch himself on the edge of Miles's desk and giggle at his wisecracks. Miles had always been very good at getting a laugh out of people, and hearing Ingram laugh had made Miles feel like he was tugging a warm blanket over himself on a cold day; it had made him feel flushed and special and Miles still remembers the crushing pain of being called into Chief Constable Overstreet's office and told, with utter finality, that "no one is, on the job."

Miles is starting to feel nauseated. He needs to get some air. "Sod this," he thinks, and moves to stand up.

But before he can move out of his chair, he hears a sound coming from Chandler's office. And Miles turns, to find that Chandler is looking straight at him. Not just looking in his direction; _looking at_ him. It's a shocking sight; Miles has no way of knowing how long Chandler has been watching him, or what he saw. All he can do is look back. Look back at Chandler, and wonder if maybe -

"Miles." Chandler says.

Miles feels as though he's just been dropped back into reality. "Boss?"

"A word, please."

*

"Shut the door, please, Miles."

Miles's hand is on the door handle, and it takes him a moment to process what Chandler has just said. Chandler looks the same as has he always has, immaculate and oblivious. The office looks the same. The team are all still quiet; they haven't even looked up. Miles just needs to calm down. Just calm down.

"Miles? Did you hear what I just said?"

Miles sits. "Yeah, yeah, sorry."

"Have you been having trouble sleeping again?" A little crease appears in between Chandler's eyebrows, the way it does when he's either perplexed or concerned, or both.

"No, don't you worry. I'm just -"

"Yes," Chandler interrupts. "Yes, I couldn't help but notice that you were having difficulty, this afternoon."

"Sorry, boss, but no worries - it's all done. Fat lot of good it did though, none of the signatures were fakes. That Rutherford bloke must've -"

"Yes, I know, Miles," Chandler interrupts again. "I didn't call you in here about the case, not exactly -"

Miles blurts out "Sir, I -"

But then Miles stops, realizing he has no idea what he means to say. Confessions and excuses crowd at the tip of his tongue, all of them utterly inapt. 'Sir, I apologize for having inappropriately homoerotic thoughts, I won't do it again, please don't make me listen to a speech about it'? 'Sir, don't worry, I've been coping with same-sex infatuations my whole life, you don't need to concern yourself with this, though you are the object of my highly improper thoughts'? Hardly.

But then Chandler says "oh, no, Miles, don't - I'm not going to reprimand you, I'm just going to offer my help."

Miles must be hearing things.

Chandler continues. "I just thought - you do so much for me, I mean, you're so tolerant of my... quirks. You constantly... You do things for me and there's not much I can do in return but I _can_ help with... That is to say, I know how to concentrate for long periods of time. I was always very distracted as a child, and I had a lot of help to learn to - to learn to sit and work quietly at a desk."

Miles just stares.

"And perhaps I could help you learn to do the same."

Miles has always prided himself on his recovery time. "Planning on making us work at our desks a lot in the future, boss?"

Chandler visibly deflates. "No - you're right, I suppose it is only of limited usefulness."

"Now now, then." It's been four years, and Miles still can't stand seeing Chandler make that face. "That's not what I said. Go on then, what did you have in mind?"

*

Chandler suggests that they stay on in the office for a bit, when everyone else has gone home. Says something about quiet - like the office isn't quiet enough, but Miles understands that he means privacy. So Miles finds himself, after end of shift, sitting at his desk, with Chandler looming over him. Like the man isn't already tall enough. He looks so _happy_ now, though.

"Right," he says, beaming. "The first thing is, a ritual."

Miles rolls his eyes.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure that does not come as a surprise. But rituals don't all have to be obsessive-compulsive like mine; sometimes they can just help trigger some specific parts of your mind."

"Trigger, do they?"

Chandler perches himself on the edge of the desk. "Yes, as a signal, you see? You are telling your mind that it is time to prepare to concentrate. It doesn't really matter what you do; so long as you do it every time you sit down to work for a long time. It could just be taking ten deep breaths in a row, or... I don't know, can you think of something?"

Christ. Socratic method Joseph Chandler. Miles doesn't know who to be embarrassed for first: himself, or Chandler. He suddenly realizes that he's only here as a favour to Chandler; to indulge him. He has no intention of changing his coping mechanisms at work. They've worked tolerably well for him so far, and why fix something that's not broken? But how is he supposed to say that to Chandler _now_? Miles takes a deep breath (...fitting) and decides to just get it over with.

"Ten deep breaths sounds just fine, boss."

Chandler blinks. "It's all right, Miles, I'm not here as your boss - there's no need to call me that."

"Force of habit, boss," Miles answers without hesitation. "I can't change now. A _ritual_ , if you will."

Chandler laughs. His laughter is like the sun, shining down on Miles, and Miles can't help smiling up at him. Miles once heard Kent say that they, Chandler and Miles, 'might argue, but don't be fooled: nothing comes between them'. It's true, and it's because of moments like this one. Here, now, there's just the two of them, and no one else.

Chandler is pulling himself into a sitting position on the desk, his legs dangling a few inches from the floor. "Right," he says. "Let's move on to another technique. I want you to take out a pen and paper, and when you find your mind drifting, write down whatever it is you're thinking about."

Bloody hell. "You want me to _what_?"

"Yes, you see, and the idea is whenever you find yourself thinking about that thing, you make a little 'x' next to it."

Miles is speechless.

"Sort of to show yourself that you... acknowledge that you've had this thought, but you're moving on, you see?" Chandler just keeps speaking, utterly oblivious. "I've heard that they call this 'mindfulness' now, but back when I learned this it was just a trick my mother showed me so I could study for my A-levels."

"You want me to _what_?"

"Well, take this afternoon for example. When you were supposed to be reviewing those files, but instead you were staring off into space - what was going through your mind?"

Miles suddenly becomes aware of just how close their heads are to one another; how near his hand is to Chandler's leg; how softly Chandler is speaking. Miles can't look up towards him; he can't. He can only look down. He sees the fabric of Chandler's trousers stretched over Chandler's thigh; he sees Chandler's hand holding the edge of the desk, and the signet ring on Chandler's finger. Miles cannot comprehend how this is happening. He spent the entire afternoon wishing he could get away from this desk. How is he _still here_? And how is it _worse_?

"Miles?"

Miles just shakes his head.

"Miles, you're bright red, are you all right?" Chandler is soft-spoken, and so bloody _earnest_.

Miles can't take this anymore. "It's you."

"I beg your pardon?"

Miles makes himself look up. "It's you. What was going through my mind. It was you."

Chandler blinks very quickly, once, twice. A third time. "I - I beg your pardon?"

"Haven't you ever wondered why I thought you were gay? It never occurred to you that maybe I was - maybe I was saying more about myself than about you?"

"But you... But. _Miles_ ," Chandler says.

But Miles has been here long enough. He pushes his chair back, and stands up. He walks to the door, and doesn't look back.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir?"

Light is reflecting off Kent's wristwatch, and bouncing off the opposite wall. The light zigzags over the ceiling when Kent opens the file in his hand, and then settles on Miles's armchair.

"Sir?" Kent coughs.

"Yes?" Chandler answers, as though Kent had only said it once. In Chandler's experience, it's best not to apologize for distracted behaviour. It only wastes time.

"The results came back on Mr Rochester's stomach contents - pad thai, sir, laced with a pesticide called... dichlorodi... DDT, sir."

"I see."

"DDT use has been banned since 1984, and so I've compiled a list of farms over thirty years old, perhaps one of them... "

Chandler stands up. "Have you told the others?"

"No sir."

Out in the incident room, the announcement seems to come as a relief to the team. It's the closest thing they've had to a lead in days. Chandler doesn't even need to assign them tasks; they're off and running. Riley is down in the basement, presumably to speak with Buchan, and Mansell is on the telephone with the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs before Chandler has finished writing "dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane" on the board.

Chandler should have time to visit at least three farms before the end of the day. He picks up his coat and Kent's list of farms, turns towards Miles's desk. But he can't seem to catch Miles's eye, and instead -

"Kent?" Chandler says.

Kent stands up. "Sir?"

"With me."

It's been three weeks since That Day. The following days, thefollowing weeks, should have been awkward, but they weren't. They were nothing at all, really. A case came in and the entire team was occupied, day and night. There was no time to think. The only difference was that he and Miles never seemed to be alone together.

Chandler didn't even notice, at first. But on the third day, he had to visit a witness, and he had his coat and his car keys and was starting towards the door, when he noticed that Miles was nowhere to be seen. Odd, Chandler had thought, Miles is usually ready for field interviews before he is. And he opened his mouth to call out: "Miles!" and just then, just a fraction of a second before he actually said it, he remembered. He remembered Miles's bright red face and the look of brave belligerence in his eyes as he'd said: "it's you."

So then Chandler turned around and called on the first DC he saw to accompany him. And now it has been three weeks and Miles hasn't so much as spoken a word to him; it's a miracle that no one has noticed. Or perhaps they have - Chandler wouldn't really know. He's only shocked, shocked to realise that for years now, Miles has been directly by his side for most of his waking hours, and that he, Chandler, has grown used to it without noticing. But compartmentalising is a skill Chandler learned along with concentration, and his long years of practice have prepared him for this

*

The trouble is, of course, that cases get solved. Poisons get found, murderers get arrested, their farms get shut down. And Chandler is pleased, he is, but success is empty at a pub table that does not include Detective Sergeant Ray Miles, and this is not something for which Chandler has been taught coping mechanisms.

He can tell he's brooding, but he has no idea how to stop it, and he excuses himself from the celebrations as soon as he can. Leaving the pub, Chandler heads back to the office, with vague plans of looking at cold case files. He breathes in, and out, and in, and out, and lets the cold night air wash over him. And then he walks back into the station, and into the darkened incident room. The whiteboard has been cleaned and the desks have been cleared of clutter; it is a soothing sight, and Chandler begins to smile, but that's when he sees him.

Miles. Sitting at his desk, in the dark. Looking at him.

The thing with Miles, Chandler knows, is that the two of them have spent _so much time together_. And Miles has always seemed to know things: about the people they work with, about the people they investigate, about Chandler himself. And Miles has been so generous and helpful, and _selfless_ and he done things and said things like they're only about Chandler's best interests, and not about Miles's best interests. And they have spent _so much time together_. That woman, Heather Green, had been right - before the past three weeks, Miles spent more time with him than he did with his own family. It's impossible not to. Part of Chandler just wants... he wants to take all those things Miles has made him feel and he wants to _show_ him, he wants to take Miles - Miles who is sitting there, looking defeated, and miserable - he wants to take Miles and somehow make sure he knows how precious he is and -

Chandler suddenly realizes that Miles has pushed his chair back, and has put on his coat. Chandler feels rooted in place, he can't quite react, and it's only when Miles walks past him that Chandler moves, and reaches out. He stops Miles with a hand on his shoulder.

For a second, Miles doesn't move. But then he turns, and fixes Chandler with a look of such utter, utter conflict, that Chandler feels as though he's choking. The thing with Miles, Chandler knows, is that... Well, that is to say, sometimes, when Chandler lies awake at night, what he really wants is -

"Miles," Chandler says, ripping the words out from somewhere near his core. "You know how, when it's late, I mean, when -"

Sometimes people fall in love with someone else's failings; they fall for that moment when the other person is hopeless and flawed. Perhaps they want to fix them - or perhaps that person is so very competent that seeing them be unsuccessful is adorable. Sometimes, people fall for the almost overwhelming attractiveness of someone else, for their skin and their eyes and the way the sunlight catches their hair. Or something about the way they move. And sometimes, just sometimes, people fall in love because they care about the same things, and they didn't know anyone else did. Chandler has powerful emotions about work, responsibility, duty, competence, but it never occurred to him that someone else might echo those emotions, let alone confront him with them. Miles has changed his life, and he never even expected Chandler to be a superhero who would save him; Miles even told him that "nobody ever said that you had to be the greatest detective that ever lived". He's always just wanted Chandler to be himself.

The thing with Chandler is that he never allows himself to think about this, and now he doesn't have the words. But his hand is still on Miles's shoulder, and Miles hasn't moved, and he has always known what was happening in Chandler's head, anyway. So he tries again: "do you remember when you were having difficulty sleeping?"

"Yeah," Miles rasps.

Chandler closes his eyes, opens them. "Well I - sometimes I can't sleep either. And when I can't sleep, I - I think about you."


	3. Chapter 3

Chandler doesn't look up when he opens the door.

Miles coughs. "Boss."

It's been a long week. The Met's counselling service has put Chandler on forced leave - they’d finally noticed that he hasn't taken a single day of annual leave in four years - and Miles hasn't set eyes on him in days. After saying the things he'd said, after the Rochester case, Chandler had left the building, without waiting for an answer. He'd seemed shocked by his own words. If Miles had to guess, he would say that Chandler might have known they were true, but hadn't known that it would be different to say them out loud. He'd practically run out of the office, leaving Miles to stare at an empty space.

And now, it's been a long week. Chandler's words are still ringing in Miles's ears and he isn't any closer to being able to think about them. Every morning, Miles wakes up and the memory hits him like a dead weight, and he has to make himself go into work and not know whether Chandler's absence makes it better, or worse.

Chandler finally looks at him. "Miles."

Miles shouldn't even be here. Chandler has been disregarding orders and working out of his own flat, and Miles doesn't see how this is his problem. Ed is the one who has been supplying him with cold case files. But not today, apparently. Today has to be the day Ed finally gets some of his own.

"Buchan's taken Meg to the Whitechapel Gallery, boss. Told me to bring you this." Miles would have told Ed "no," he would have, but then he would have had to explain why.

"Oh." Chandler towers over Miles, even barefoot, and looks like he doesn't know where to look. He looks subdued, somehow, in a shirt and jumper. He takes the files.

"Thank you, Miles."

Miles has only caught Chandler's eyes once, since last week. It happened as they were passing each other in the office, just before Chandler left for his forced holiday. Miles had looked over his shoulder at Chandler. He doesn't know why; he just did it. And he saw, then, Chandler doing the same. Chandler's eyes had been dark.

Now, Chandler is still standing the doorway. He is neither closing the door, nor inviting Miles in. They haven't been alone since the night the Rochester case was closed. Miles does not know where to look. If he looks directly at Chandler, he thinks, he'll break.

"Come in." Chandler says. He turns, and opening the door, gestures for Miles to come inside. He sets the file folder on a table near the door, and turns towards Miles. When Miles looks up at him, Chandler's pupils are dilated, and he appears to be swaying into Miles's space, like the air is pulling him in.

Miles is the one who breaks. He grabs Chandler's arm, and pulls him towards himself, blindly, hopelessly. And Chandler is unresisting and passive - it's like he doesn't know what he is supposed to do. Miles doesn't know what he wants Chandler to do either, but he, Miles, only wants - the only thing he wants is to put his arms around Chandler. He pulls Chandler into a hug, and clings to him, his nose buried into Chandler's jumper.

Chandler does not react, but he does not back away either, and Miles closes his eyes. He just wants to be inside Chandler's space. He's always wanted to be inside Chandler's space.

Then Chandler moves against him. Some kind of instinctual response takes hold of Miles, and he finds himself caressing his back, and his arms, and his shoulders. And when Chandler runs his hands up Miles's back, Miles finds himself angling his head up, and Chandler is kissing him.

It's odd and uncomfortable, but then Chandler turns his head a bit, sighs into Miles's mouth, and just like that, Miles is losing his mind. He leans into Chandler, feels Chandler's heartbeat, touches Chandler's hands with his own. He's wanted him for _so long_. The world narrows down to the space between them, and Miles is aware of nothing but textures, and colours, and the sounds Chandler is making as he clings to Miles.

But a thought floats up, from deep in the recesses of Miles's mind. He says "wait, no. We mustn’t," and pushes Chandler away.

Chandler staggers backwards. "What?"

"This is - we can't."

Chandler gapes - rather unattractively - and doesn't move. Miles begins to back away. But when he starts to open the door, Chandler seizes his arm.

"No." He says. "No! Miles -" he grips Miles's arm, and suddenly starts hauling him down the hall.

"Boss! What are you -"

Chandler pulls Miles into the sitting room. He has obviously been working from here. It is alarmingly immaculate, like the rest of the flat. Case files are laid out; Chandler's watch, wallet and tub of tiger balm set out at even distances from one another.

"Boss. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - we mustn’t. This isn't -"

But Chandler ignores him. Still holding Miles's arm with one hand, Chandler reaches out and plucks a paper carefully from the coffee table with the other. It's only a plain slip of paper, folded in two. Chandler looks at it, nods to himself, and holds it out to Miles.

Miles opens it; inside is a short list:

> \- whistling from the ventilation shaft  
>  \- oil stains on the brown shoes  
>  \- errors about police procedure on the television  
>  \- Miles

Beside each item are three or four 'x's; beside Miles's name there are... Miles can't count them all. Dozens of 'x's.

Miles's heartbeat quickens, and he suddenly feels twenty-six years old, just realizing for the first time that sometimes, it wasn't just him - sometimes, other boys looked at him the way he looked at them - and finding himself utterly unprepared for it. Back then it had been a good looking neighbour across the hall from Miles's new flat, one of those briefly flickering attractions, over almost as soon as they'd started. But it had been a revelation to Miles: the reality, the tangible fact of it.

And now it's so much more than that, and Chandler's skin feels like fervour and granted wishes. His hands push into Miles's clothes, grasping at Miles, tugging on Miles's jacket. Miles doesn't know what this means; he doesn't. He just knows that seeing his name written down in Chandler's handwriting means that he no longer cares whether it's a good idea.

Chandler takes over, which Miles somehow knew was going to happen. He pushes Miles down onto the sofa and climbs on top of him. The entire length of Chandler is pressing down on Miles, and they paw at each other, warm and desperate.

"Please, Miles..."

Chandler pushes his thumb into Miles's mouth - Miles lets him - and then moves to pull it out. But he catches sight of Miles's expression and, experimentally, pushes his thumb back in. Miles whimpers and Chandler begins to move rhythmically in and out of his mouth.

"I've wanted to do that since..."

Chandler doesn't finish his thought; he stands up, and is pulling Miles with one arm and has his other arm around Miles's shoulders and they're in the hallway and then they're in the bedroom and Chandler is pushing him down like he knows that's what Miles wants.

*

Joseph Chandler saved his life, and every day since, Miles has been wanting to keep him safe. He has stood by his side and done his best to stop other people from hurting him, done his best to stop Chandler hurting himself, and done his best to fix it when things went wrong anyway. But lying here, his arms around Chandler, listening to his breathing become slow and regular, is what finally brings Miles peace.

"Miles." Chandler murmurs, half asleep.

Miles hugs him tighter. "I'm right here, sir."


End file.
